


The Rabbit of Caerbannog

by ThetaSigma



Series: Mad Doc Watson [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Actually BAMF, M/M, Mad Doc Watson, Magnussen is the worst, The continuing adventures of Mad Doc Watson, There is quite a bit of violence in this one, john is BAMF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 10:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20619407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaSigma/pseuds/ThetaSigma
Summary: The case against Charles Augustus Magnussen leads to a tense standoff, a shooting, and a lot of secrets coming out. It turns out there is a lot more to John Watson than anyone knows -- and that includes his husband, a man who can sniff out a lie at twenty paces, and his brother-in-law, who is the British Government.The denoument of the Magnussen case leads to John recounting another adventure from his army days, one which led to the creation of one of the army's best-kept secrets.





	The Rabbit of Caerbannog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonwings/gifts).

> So first, hi everyone! I apologize for the extremely long hiatus Mad Doc went on. It's been a year-plus of crazy life stuff for me, and writing fell by the wayside as I took care of other things. But this idea was suggested to me on the last Mad Doc I posted (The Most Dangerous Man You'll Ever Meet) and I've wanted to write it since then, chipping away at this story as I could.
> 
> So, here it is. Thanks everyone for being patient, for all the people who left comments and let me know how much fun they had with this.
> 
> This is for [Moonwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonwings/pseuds/moonwings%22), who prompted this idea.
> 
> Also, as will become ridiculously obvious, I have done minimal research into any of what happens in the story below. I feel like there are two types of writers: Those who will research every small detail to make it as authentic as possible, and those who go, "eh fuck it, it'll be fine, readers can suspend their disbelief". Both ways are valid, and mine is the lazy one. If the lack of any kind of authenticity bothers you, that's mainly on me. Although nothing Mad Doc has done really counts as authentic or realistic at this point. This series has gone from "mainly believable BAMF John" to "shamelessly extremely BAMF John for all of us who love the BAMFitude"

The trouble with Charles Augustus Magnussen -- or, as he became decidedly unaffectionately known in the Holmes-Watson household: “that viperous, slimy, lying shark” -- started very slowly, with a blackmail case.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, it rapidly turned into a major issue, and led to a standoff at Appledore between Magnussen, Sherlock, and John, with Mycroft on his way in helicopters.

The start to the story, and how our intrepid heroes found themselves with a gun lying on a table, Magnussen taunting them, is dull and long and involves lots of legwork and witnesses with mysteriously unreliable memories and a tenacious, if truly obnoxious, detective.

It isn’t important to what comes next.

***

John stands with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. No one is worried that he might be hiding a gun; Magnussen’s men were more than thorough. It would have to be the trick he’d used to take out the Taliban again, and he doesn’t really make a habit of hiding guns in his rectum. Anyway, his SIG was stolen weeks prior, apparently by one of Magnussen’s distressingly thorough men.

It’s really a rather good thing, in the end, that Sherlock had been playing with it the day they got robbed, because that meant it was in with Sherlock’s things. Which means that Magnussen is utterly convinced that  _ Sherlock _ owned the gun and that  _ Sherlock _ is the dangerous one.

Magnussen is taunting Sherlock now, about how even the greatest men must fall and fail, and after all, Sherlock never was that great a man to begin with anyway, now was he?

“It is rather interesting, don’t you think, that the gun matches the ballistics exactly on a bullet pulled out of one Mr Jefferson Hope,” Magnussen taunts. “Oh, he was one of your cases, wasn’t he? A serial murdering cabbie, most distressing, I’m sure, and suddenly shot. Supposedly, according to police reports, by an unknown gunman through two windows with a SIG. But even the police report admits that the man shooting must have been one astounding marksman. Isn’t it more likely that the report, written by…” he pretends to consult a paper “... ah, yes, DI Lestrade, was hiding the truth? That DI Lestrade -- your unofficial ‘liaison’ at Scotland Yard -- was covering for you by making up a wild and almost completely unbelievable story?”

“It was an unknown gunman,” Sherlock says tightly, not looking over to John. John is still standing there, looking as amiable and as harmless as ever. 

“But the ballistics match  _ your _ gun,  _ detective _ . Me, I think about public safety, and a detective with a gun and a history of ignoring rules, well that can’t stand, now can it?” He gives a self-satisfied little smirk and says, “But I think this information can stay out of the hands of the rest of the police -- yes, I know DI Lestrade covers up for you -- so long as you work for  _ me _ now. Come here. I want to flick your face.”

Sherlock reluctantly goes closer, not seeing a way out. The ballistics  _ do _ match the gun, and if he says anything, he admits that John performed cold-blooded murder. Despite his General Watson status, John likely wouldn’t be able to get out of a murder charge. 

Just as Magnussen is about to flick Sherlock’s face, John hears the helicopters coming. Bingo. He’d wanted an audience for this, because quite frankly, as General John Watson, he is  _ not _ concerned about  _ Mycroft _ or the police or the SAS or any of those silly little people. What he  _ is _ concerned about is Sherlock getting the blame for this. John wants to do this in full view of at least one unimpeachable witness who could swear it was John, not Sherlock, who pulled the trigger. He edges closer to the gun, lying on a table, mostly forgotten about.

“You know, Magnussen,” John says in a fairly good approximation of his amiable voice, but which Sherlock recognises as  _ I’m angry as fuck and hiding it _ , “You really, really should’ve done your research.  _ He’s _ not the dangerous one.  _ I _ am.” By the time he’s finished saying that, the gun in his hand, pointed at Magnussen. “I’m General Doctor Sir John Hamish Watson, and you  _ do not _ touch  _ my  _ husband!” he snaps and pulls the trigger. It’s a direct, clean headshot, and as soon as Magnussen falls over backward, the look of shock firmly fixed on his face, John drops the gun and responds to Mycroft’s barked orders to place his hands on his head.

John can’t look right now, but he guesses Sherlock’s confused by that last line.

He’s very wrong. Sherlock is staring in horror at John, practically nothing of what John had said registering, his mind replaying John’s precise shot overlaid on the scene of John being taken into custody by his brother-in-law and Sherlock feels like he’s falling apart at the seams, how did a routine case go  _ this wrong _ ?

That’s all he can think of right now, that he’d gotten involved in this stupid, stupid case, he hadn’t backed down, hadn’t stepped away, had decried blackmailers and hadn’t listened with Magnussen said he’d get Sherlock under his thumb too, and it was about to happen and John had  _ sacrificed _ himself for Sherlock, and his mind is whirling in circles.

Mycroft doesn’t spare Sherlock a look, just leads John away.

Mycroft doesn’t know what he’d say. Sherlock doesn’t know what he’d want Mycroft to say. Mycroft would never ignore a murder, not done like this, and that’s the only thing he’d  _ want _ from Mycroft right now.

*** 

They take him to an interrogation room somewhere. John’s not entirely sure where, but it seems to be very, very secret. 

He’s not asked for a solicitor -- but it’s been pretty clear that they’re not offering him the chance to call one. John’s not surprised, not that he particularly wants a solicitor right now. The fewer people who hear the details of the interrogation coming, the better.

Nor is Sherlock allowed near him, which also doesn’t surprise him.

No, instead, John has the displeasure of the  _ other _ Holmes brother. Mycroft is all business, no hint that they are in any way related. Anyone observing from the outside would be completely unable to tell they are brothers-in-law.

For the first time in quite a few months -- over a year, in fact -- Mycroft does not appear to be afraid of John. He says, “ _ General _ Watson --” with quite a bit of emphasis on the title “-- being a general won’t save you from the murder charge. You shot an unarmed civilian in cold blood today, and while you may be my brother’s husband, that won’t save you.”

“I don’t need it to. Tell me,  _ Mister _ Holmes,” John says, with the same stress on the title, “Have you ever heard of the Zodiac Knights?” He says the name calmly, casually, like he’s asking about the football match results from last night.

Mycroft freezes. He  _ has _ heard of the Zodiac Knights= but only just barely.

The Zodiac Knights are one of the army’s best-kept secrets. Even Mycroft knows almost nothing about them. Here is what he does know: There were 12 of them. Whether or not they all had actual knighthoods was never known -- any of those who actually  _ did _ had that hidden while they were active military -- and each had a code-name based on the Zodiac. Amongst the few who had ever heard of the Knights, the thinking was that as you progressed up the Zodiac, the Knight so named was stronger, more able than the one before them. For the few who had ever heard of the Zodiac Knights, the Dragon was considered to be the strongest, most feared Knight.

The Zodiac Knights handled the sensitive cases, the dangerous ones, the ones considered to be certain, absolute death, the ones where any hint of actual involvement would have meant very unpleasant consequences for the nation. No one was quite sure if the Zodiac Knights had all met each other or not. A Knight could be in someone’s platoon and they’d never know. Even if they had known a Zodiac Knight was in their midst, that knowledge would be meaningless. Practically no soldier knew of the Zodiac Knights.

Mycroft knows one thing more than most of the very few who have heard of these Knights: The Dragon was not the strongest. The Rabbit was.

“The name isn’t unfamiliar,” Mycroft says in as bored a tone as he can manage.

John raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t think it would be, but you know so  _ very _ little about them, don’t you?”

“I suppose you know more?”

Mycroft rather suspects John  _ does _ . A powerful, crazy soldier with a history of surviving suicide missions? Quite likely to be a Knight.

“I am the Killer Bunny,” John says placidly. “And I have a licence to kill.”

Mycroft doesn’t  _ look _ flustered, but John has experience reading Holmeses. Mycroft’s  _ flustered _ , and John silently revels in that.

Mycroft gathers his papers with affected calm and stands. “I have to consult with some people about this.” He doesn’t give any trite order to stay. There’d be little point other than a verbal jab: John is still handcuffed to the table.

Within thirty minutes, Mycroft is back, with a guard and a high-ranking member of the military.

“General Watson,” Mycroft says formally, “You are hereby free to go. No charges are to be filed, and as far as anyone knows, Magnussen died of a massive cerebral hemorrhage. We at the government would appreciate it if you could stick to that story, and must remind you to keep this adventure off of your blog. Apologies for any inconvenience.”

As Mycroft is speaking, the guard is releasing John. John stands and says, “My gun, please.”

“You will be given that back on your way out.”

John moves to leave, but Mycroft stops him -- nothing so crass as a hand on his arm, but the intent was definitely present. A slight motion of his hand, but enough.

“Mycroft?” John asks.

“John -- if I may still have the honour of calling you that --”

“It’s  _ Sir _ John, actually, Mycroft,” John corrects, needled enough by the entire interrogation that he decides to make free use of his title.

“Sir John,” Mycroft says. There is a pause, as Mycroft searches for the right words. It’s an unusual enough occurence that John doesn’t rush him. “I want to personally apologise. This time, as your brother-in-law.”

“Don’t come by the flat for a few weeks, I think,” John answers flatly, and this time does leave.

Mycroft figures that was about the best it could possibly go. Especially, if any of the rumors about the Killer Bunny are true, John could have easily fought his way out of the room. He’d  _ likely _ be stopped eventually, but there really isn’t any guarantee of that.

***

Not quite five hours after the events at Appledore, John is home again. Sherlock has spent the first half hour since John arrived cursing out Mycroft, verifying John is okay, and generally clinging to his husband, still worried that someone would come and take John away again.

It isn’t until John’s calmed Sherlock down significantly that Sherlock remembers what he said at the scene.

“John… were you  _ knighted _ ?” Sherlock asks, picking his head up from where it had been resting on John’s good shoulder.

“Well, yes. Wasn’t really a big deal, though, Sherlock.”

Sherlock by now knows to ignore this. He pokes and prods and finally gets the story out of John. To tell the story the way John did would be torturous. Some people can make a routine trip to Tesco’s for milk sound like a tale filled with adventure, cunning, lies, deceit, and the ever-present danger of violent death.

John has the opposite talent: he can downplay a story of actual adventure, cunning, lies, deceit, and the ever-present danger of violent death into someone recounting a trip to the local Tesco’s for milk. It is only by Sherlock’s persistent questioning that he got any of the actually interesting details.

The story, in far less aggravating form, follows.

*** 

It’s years prior to Sherlock and John meeting, and John is stationed in Afghanistan. For once, he’s actually working as a doctor. The base’s hospital had been short-staffed, and John has never been able to say no when someone needs his help. It’s certainly not what his role is, but he’s quite happy to be doing something life-or-death in a very different way. He’s a bloody good doctor, as it happens, and it’s only his excellence as a soldier that keeps him from getting to work as a doctor more often.

Still, it’s only a week-long stint as they scramble to find someone to take over this field hospital so they can have Mad Doc back out in the field, where he belongs (and, while John very much loves being a doctor, he definitely feels stifled here -- he’s happiest when there’s danger on every side and he’s the one calling in danger from above). 

It’s near the end of the second week of what would have been a week long stay (nothing moves quickly), and John is about to head off shift, or as off-shift as the head doctor can be.

Two things happen within ten minutes of each other: a victim comes in, blood flowing from several gunshot wounds while field medics press down, running with the stretcher and calling out vitals.

Not ten minutes after John arrives at the OR, the lights go out. 

He curses and figures it’s just a faulty wire somewhere, knocking out power in his OR. He calls out calmly for torches, floodlights, lanterns, whatever anyone has available, and jerry-rigs a headlamp out of medical tape, gauze, and a pocket torch so that he can see but have his hands free. The power outage doesn’t faze him; it’s a minor inconvenience. As almost an afterthought, he directs someone to go try and fix this so he can see what he’s doing.

John is so focussed on getting the patient assessed and treated that he doesn’t pay attention to any of the outside noises -- but the staff with him definitely hear it. There are loud, clattering footsteps -- the sound of many people in heavy boots running down hallways -- and the not-far-enough-off sound of rapid gunfire. They start getting nervous and twitchy, and look over at John, calmly suturing shut a wound while calling for another liter of O-neg.

As the gunfire grows nearer, they can hear screams, and that’s what penetrates John’s focus. He looks up and sees several fewer people than he had started with, and almost all the staff remaining are pale in the light of his torch. He doesn’t blame them -- it’s a base, and while they’re technically part of the RAMC, they’re doctors and nurses who have always stayed on base, away from the action. The people in the room with him don’t even go out on the field as an attachment to a unit. This is the closest the fighting has ever been for them. 

John assesses his patient quickly. He’s stable and unconscious (medically induced, now), and John can handle the anesthesia on his own. There’s more work to be done -- shrapnel to remove, and so on -- but while urgent, it’s no longer life-or-death, the soldier will survive.

“Go,” he tells the people still in the OR. “Get out, get to safety, let the higher-ups know this base in compromised.” Terrified faces stare back at him. “The fighting is coming from the west side of the building. Go out via the east side, drive like maniacs, and GO!” He shouts the last part when people still don’t move. “I’ll cover you, keep them from coming through here for a bit. Go quickly but quietly.”

The staff flee, making as little noise as possible as they leave. With one exception. One very, very brave nurse says hesitantly, “I’m… General, I’m a certified nurse anesthesiologist. I can keep the patient under while you work, sir.”

“You’re not used to the fighting, are you? You’re not trained.”

She hesitates, but answers finally, “No. But you’re gonna need an extra pair of hands, and I came here to save lives, not run.”

He smiles at her. “I can’t promise we’ll get through this alive.”

“I’m not asking you to,” she answers, the resolve strengthening in her tone. “Just asking you to save him so he can be evacuated, too.”

“What’s your name?” 

“Sandy, sir.”

“Right, Sandy, I’ll be in and out -- I need to see what’s going on in the base and see how much is compromised and what we can do. It sounds like we’ve got insurgents, and I want to make sure they stay far away from this OR and you. Your job is going to be to monitor the patient, keep him under, and if you can pull some of the shrapnel out while I’m not here, I’d appreciate that. Suture what you can. Do whatever you have to to keep him alive and well; I’ll write whatever orders are necessary when I’m back. I’m sorry, but when I’m not here, I’m going to be out of touch -- I don’t want my position given away by a beeper or a radio. Can you handle that? If you can’t, that’s fine. I won’t judge you for leaving.”

“I can handle that, General.”

“Last thing, Sandy. If they come -- if they’re too close, if you don’t think I’ll be back in time, you’re to leave. Run. Leave the patient and get yourself to safety.”

“Yes, sir.”

It’s clear she expects him to walk out the door with his gun drawn (John’s fairly grateful he didn’t even think to leave his gun behind. It’s so much a part of him he doesn’t notice that it’s holstered on his hip). But John doesn’t do that. Instead, he strips off his protective gown and the shoe covers, then kicks his shoes off. He yanks the gloves off with an audible  _ snap _ , then clambers onto a rolling cart he hastily pushed everything off of. He’s careful not to move too quickly, so that the cart doesn’t start to roll. 

Sandy understands quickly what he’s doing -- at least that he doesn’t want the cart to go rolling -- and runs to stabilize it. He shoots her a grateful grin and removes the vent cover, then lifts himself in. “Well. Wish me luck,” he says with a wry smile, and slithers off into the air ducts.

“Good luck,” Sandy says softly, then returns to her patient.

*** 

John crawls through the ducts as quietly as possible. He listens carefully, pausing often to try to pinpoint where the insurgents are. He figures he’s about as close to right above a few as he’s going to get, and begins searching for a vent to let him out again. Frustratingly, there isn’t one nearby, and with a shrug, John wriggles until he manages to grasp his knife, and simply  _ carves _ out the necessary hole, timing it with bursts of gunfire to mask the noise. He peers out and notices they’re not paying attention to anything above their heads, and, in fact, haven’t even noticed the noises. Not that John is surprised -- the din is deafening, the sounds of battle all around. As quietly as he can, he maneuvers himself until he is dangling out of the duct, and -- gripping tightly with one hand, ignoring the pain of the sharp metal edge digging into his palm -- drives his knife into the back of a man, angling upwards to collapse the lung and stop the heart: a deadly, fast, and silent kill. 

He yanks himself back up into the hole before the body crashes to the ground, and ducks out of sight. 

The man’s two companions look in shock at their suddenly dead comrade. They look around them but not  _ up _ , and nervously edge away from the body. No one else was around to kill him.

As one sneaks to a junction in the hallways, John drops down again, and slices the other’s throat. This time, he lets himself fall to his feet, and slips out of view around the corner opposite the junction the other man is checking out. 

Staying quietly behind the wall, John angles his knife so he can see the man’s reflection in the blade. The remaining man is shocked and scared to see that both his friends are dead on the ground, and he runs away from John. 

John curses -- he had hoped to get all three -- and slips into a nearby closet, hoping he can wiggle back into the air ducts.

He can’t, not from this closet, moving everything that was blocking the vent would take far too long and be too noisy, so he silently pads back out of the closet, his socked feet making no sound on the floor. 

He ducks from shadow to shadow, staying out of view, a lethal shade. He sees more people coming, and shimmies his way up the doorway, hiding at the very top.

Four men are approaching, and fast as lightning -- stab, stab, stab, stab -- John dispatches all four. He’s not entirely sure they’re  _ all _ dead, but none of them are moving any time soon, and that suits John just fine. He lets himself fall from the doorway, allowing the bodies to cushion him, hoping he broke a few bones landing on anyone who might still be alive, and slips off again.

This time, he’s heading with determination for the OR. It’s been a while since he left Sandy behind -- half an hour, or so -- and while he has faith the nurse will be coping just fine with their unconscious patient, he’s still got a surgery to finish.

On his way there, he sees three more men, stomping through the hallways, heading directly for that wing. Well. That simply won’t do -- his patient and nurse are in there, and he has no intention of letting either down. 

There are no doorways to hide at the top of, no shadows to protect him until the last minute, no air duct he can drop out of. Just him and three heavily armed insurgents, and John grins to himself. These are the times he feels most  _ alive _ , when it’s him against impossible odds, when he’s got to be quicker, smarter, better than whoever is against him, when a second’s hesitation or thought means death.

He  _ loves _ this way too much. 

Element of surprise here, he thinks, and runs at them, in socks, a rumpled set of scrubs, his gun pointed directly at them. He kills one before any can react, but the other two recover quickly, and level their own guns at him. 

John knows better than to rely on their aim being shitty, and rolls into a ball to minimize the surface area and maximize the likelihood of them hitting something vital. He somersaults at them, staying low to the ground, and shoves his knife into one’s femoral artery while his other hand knocks sharply at the back of the man’s knees. Between the stab and the sudden buckling of his knee, that man goes down, to bleed out in short minutes.

The last man in the hallway has thrown his gun down, a rifle being less than helpful when his enemy is less than six inches from him, and grapples with John for his knife. John spies his opening and lets the man snatch for the knife, sliding behind him and snapping his neck while the man is finally claiming his prize, mid-lunge.

He topples to the ground and John takes his knife back. He’s about to move on when he realizes he would have a much easier time sneaking through the base if he’s not dressed like a British soldier-slash-doctor. He takes the top layer of one of the men’s clothes -- the one closest in size to him -- and wraps the scarf around his face, obscuring his features, and shrugs into what he could easily remove and wear.

He runs down the hallway, still making no noise in his socked feet, and pauses outside the door of the OR. The room is quiet, and of course no machines are beeping, with the power still out. He hears Sandy moving around the room -- at least he hopes it’s Sandy- and walks in.

She sees him and terror floods her face, which puzzles him until he remembers he had just hidden his face with a scarf. He shoves it down around his neck and says quietly, “It’s just me. Everything going okay in here?”

She nods, her breathing too close to hyperventilation, and he has her sit and breathe for a minute while he checks his patient. The unconscious soldier is doing well, his vitals seem fine (as far as John can tell, he can’t quite spare the time to do all of them manually, not when he’s sure the base isn’t secured yet), and Sandy has made progress on removing the shrapnel. 

John figures he has ten, maybe twenty, minutes before anything else demands his attention -- he’s fairly certain he’s cleared the nearest hallways, and the bodies along the way will likely slow down anyone else.

He scrubs up again, throws a new protective gown on, and gloves up. While Sandy is doing well, he had noticed that several things had been nicked internally, either by a bullet or by the explosion, and he needs to get that repaired sooner rather than later. The patient is losing blood, but as long as they keep transfusing while John is busy elsewhere, he’s still likely to survive.

John dives in, calling in clipped tones for various instruments, and Sandy hands them quickly, having recovered from her earlier panic. Working fast, John has a kidney repaired and two nicks to the bowel before he hears noises again. Footsteps growing closer, and he’s out of time if he wants to keep this OR free of fighting. He gives more instructions to Sandy, who is moving to take over again, and strips his gown and gloves off. 

At this rate, they’re going to go through an entire day’s worth of protective gear. 

He wriggles back into the air ducts, the trick having worked well before, and slithers off again. He notes Sandy had had the presence of mind to secure it in case he uses it again, and a flash of pride fills him. One of his favorite parts of these experiences is watching other people realize that there’s more to themselves than they had thought previously. John has a knack in bringing that out in others.

He crawls through more vents, following the reverberating footsteps, until he’s sure he’s above someone. He’s lucky; this time there’s a vent he can undo. He peers through it before making any move to remove it, and sees two men standing in the hallway and arguing. He doesn’t know about what -- he doesn’t speak their language -- but he wonders if they are brothers, the way they’re going on. One of them turns away in a huff, stomping off to do something, possibly in response to whatever argument they’re having, and John takes his moment. He undoes the vent quickly, and it falls, slamming into the other man’s head.

It does little more than attract his attention, which John is fine with -- he leans halfway out of the vent, anchors his legs against a different vent, grabs the man, and drags him upward, strangling him the whole time. Between the chokehold and the lack of ground underneath the man’s feet, it’s like he’s being hanged, and when John feels the man become dead weight, he lets him go. The man slumps to the ground and John yanks himself back into the ducts as the first man looks over.

As the first man bends over the body, crying out in horror and sorrow, John drops out of the vent again, feet first this time, and lands heavily on the crouched man’s back.

A short tussle later, he’s also dead.

In this way, John clears almost all of the base and finishes his surgery, bouncing between his two goals as one becomes more pressing than the other. The bodies are piling up in the base, blood and corpses everywhere, discarded weapons and bulletholes as men had shot at some unseen enemy.

He’s crawling in the vents again when he hears shouting. A man is shouting into a phone, and this time, in English.

“You don’t understand!” the man is shouting. “They’re all  _ dead _ . Fifty of the men I came with are dead! There’s four of us left, and we’re leaving now. There’s a spirit here. I kept being told, ‘I was in the hallway with one, two, four others, and suddenly, one of them was dead and there was no one else around.’ Those men are also dead now. Everywhere you go there’s bodies, all of them from us, and I haven’t seen anyone in two hours! The soldiers all fled or died when we entered, but there are more of  _ us _ dead now! I don’t care what you think, we’re  _ leaving _ .”

_ And good riddance _ , John thinks to himself.

“Fine, I’ll prime the bombs before I go,” the man snarls before ending the call with a vicious jab at his phone and dropping it back into his pocket.

John drops out of the ducts again. “You know,” he says. “I really was going to let you go quietly. Until you mentioned  _ bombs _ .”

“The demon!” the man gasps, and John gives himself a quick glance. His face is bloody, and he has a hospital mask on (he’d forgotten to remove it, his last quick dash out of the OR), goggles are covering his eyes (again, forgetful), his outfit is covered in tiny cuts and tears from his various escapades, and he’s got quite a bit of blood splashed on him, most of it the dead men’s, some of it his patient’s. 

While the man is frozen in terror, John moves, disarming him and knocking him unconscious with his own rifle. He debates killing him, but it seems he might have accidentally found their leader, and zipties his hands together instead, leaving the man alive but unconscious. 

He heads back to the OR for the finishing steps and to bring his patient around. Once he’s done with that, he’ll call this in and work on fixing the power, but those are lower priorities.

***

“And,” John says, wrapping up his story to Sherlock (a much more tortuous affair than the one presented above, full of Sherlock being tenacious in his questions, until this narrative emerged), “that was that. The base was back in our hands, security increased, not that anyone else ever tried to take it over, the Haunted British Base became a local ghost story, and my patient made a full recovery and eventually went back home.”

“And that’s why you were knighted?” Sherlock asks, making sure he has the  _ full _ story. He’s used to his husband’s way of downplaying heroic acts, and he’s not yet positive John hasn’t left some detail out, dismissing it as “no big deal”.

“Well, for the most part.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and waits for John to elaborate.

“It’s not like I  _ knew _ who I was operating on,” John adds.

Sherlock’s eyebrow magically goes higher.

“It was one of the royal family,” John finally adds. “Actually they never told me  _ which _ one, they said since I hadn’t identified him in any of the confusion, it was not important for me to know at this point who he was. But the Queen was so grateful I had saved him that I was called for a knighting. Secretly, so that I wasn’t publicized and could continue my missions.”

Sherlock has the feeling there is  _ one last thing _ John is not telling him. “And that’s all that came out of that?”

John sighs. He knows that his husband will know if he hides or lies, so he reluctantly tells the last part. “Following that, someone in the military -- one of the other generals -- looked at my past record of carrying out suicide missions and actually coming back from them. They found several other people who were vital in dangerous missions, either because they had a penchant for suicide missions or because another skill of theirs was so highly developed and rare to find. They created a group called the Zodiac Knights. They wanted me to be the leader of it, and they offered me the role of the Dragon, which is the top of the Zodiac. I told them, nah, I’d rather be the Rabbit.”

“The rabbit?” Sherlock repeats, surprised. “Why a rabbit?”

“Monty Python,” John grins. “The Killer Bunny, and that became one of my codenames. I am the Killer Bunny. So, they created this group, and for the most part, the Knights remained part of their usual platoon and did their usual tasks. But sometimes, there would be a crazy mission, one that was probably gonna end in death, so they’d send a Knight. Or more than one. And almost no one knows about them, Sherlock, so everything I’m telling you is a secret. I mean, Mycroft knows almost nothing about them, that’s how secret this info is.”

Sherlock nods in understanding. 

“And you can be one of the very, very few people to know that all the Zodiac Knights do know each other. We’ve worked together as a group before, once or twice, for a big mission. Usually, though, it would be one or two. If the mission was not just likely to be a suicide one, but absolutely insane to boot, they’d send me. Or if they needed every trace of something gone. My methods were always scorched Earth.”

“Is that why Mycroft had to let you go?” Sherlock asks. “Because you’re a Zodiac Knight?”

“More because the Zodiac Knights actually have licences to kill,” John answers. “We have to. We’re not just in a clear-cut battle situation, so the licence to kill covered us a bit more. I could make the case the Magnussen shooting fell into something my licence covered, so Mycroft had to let me go.”

“Why haven’t you told anyone since you left the army that you’re knighted?” Sherlock asks curiously.

John shrugs. “It wasn’t a big deal. And I’ve always been cautious, in case the Zodiac Knights are revealed -- I’m the only one that’s not actively serving, even if they refuse to properly remove my status.”

General Doctor  _ Sir _ John Hamish Watson, Sherlock says, updating his mental file on John. He stares at the quiet, unassuming man settling in with his cup of tea, now that story time is over, and wonders, not for the first time, how woolly jumpers and an affable smile manage to hide a ruthless, crazy soldier with an ironbound moral compass and no fear.

John notices Sherlock looking and smiles. He shakes out the newspaper and starts to read, settling back into life in 221B, the threat of Magnussen far removed. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and I hope this story was worth a year's wait! If it wasn't, you may take a digital "I'm sorry" cookie on your way out. Take two. I make absolutely no promises about when or if a new Mad Doc story will appear -- I do hope so, I still love Mad Doc, but *flaps hand in direction of the outside world* real life is a thing. Feel free to drop an idea, either here or to [Mad Doc's Tumblr](maddocwatson.tumblr.com), and hopefully that will prompt my lazy brain into writing something again.  
Edit: I forgot to credit the title. It is from Monty Python


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